Andrey Kurkov - The Gardener from Ochakov

Igor and his mother had lunch sitting opposite one another in the kitchen, next to the rain-streaked window. Elena Andreevna was happy to partake of the brandy, although Igor was on his third glass before she had even finished her first.

‘I wonder where Stepan’s got to,’ mused Igor.

‘He’s a grown man,’ his mother replied with a shrug. ‘And besides, he’s not officially registered here. So what if he’s decided to move on? He’s got no one to answer to but himself.’

‘Mmm, not officially registered anywhere,’ nodded Igor. ‘People like that are usually wanted by the police.’

‘Hold your tongue!’ exclaimed Elena Andreevna. ‘You never know what life is going to throw at you. It’s only by the grace of God that you’re not in his situation. He’s clearly an honest and reliable man. And he thinks before he speaks. Unlike you!’

Igor said nothing. He glanced at the scales on the windowsill. He poured himself a fourth glass of brandy, still thinking about the gardener.

Later that afternoon, his mobile phone rang. It was Kolyan, brimming with his usual enthusiasm.

‘Hi! What are you up to?’

‘Nothing much. I’m at home.’

‘Aren’t you coming to my birthday party?’

‘Oh, is it today?’

‘Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Come to the Petrovich club in a few hours’ time. You know, the Retro Party place. Just make sure you wear a Young Pioneers’ neck scarf or something like that, in keeping with the theme. They love all that Soviet stuff. The owner’s probably a former Komsomol activist.’

Igor glanced at the wet window. He didn’t feel like setting foot out of the house, let alone travelling to Kiev, but he couldn’t exactly say that to his best friend without offend-ing him. It was already too late to try and get out of it by pleading a cold or an upset stomach. If he’d wanted it to sound plausible, he should have said it right at the start of the conversation.

‘OK, I’ll think of something. I’m drinking a brandy in your honour as we speak,’ said Igor. ‘Any specific requests, as far as presents are concerned?’

‘Presents? Oh, you know me – I’ll be happy with anything. Apart from flowers. I can’t stand cut flowers. It’s like watching your money wilt. No, I’d prefer hard cash!’

‘Do you take roubles?’

‘Roubles, dollars, it’s all the same to me!’

Igor smiled, thinking about the Soviet roubles in the suitcase.

‘Fine, roubles it is then! See you later!’

IGOR’S HEAD WAS buzzing slightly from the brandy. He stood looking at the police uniform, which he’d laid out on his bed. The leather boots stood on the floor, shiny and proud. Nearby, on the bedside table, lay the bundles of Soviet hundred-rouble notes. They were held together with bands of paper.

I could take it with me and get changed there, thought Igor. He gave a sigh, then waved his doubts away. Oh, what the hell! I can put my anorak over the top. It’s dark outside anyway, no one will be able to see.

Igor pulled on the boots, realising immediately that they were at least a size too big. He found some thick woollen socks, put them on over the thin pair he was already wearing and tried the boots on again. Now they seemed to fit.

‘OK,’ he nodded decisively. ‘I’m a retro police officer for the evening. And I’ll pay for everything with retro money!’

Igor put on the tight-fitting breeches and the tunic. He tightened the belt around his waist and went over to the mirror, leaving the gun and its holster on the bed. A smile crept over his face. He liked what he saw.

‘Nice one,’ he murmured. ‘The girls are going to love it!’

Taking the gun out of the holster, he turned it over in his hands as he contemplated taking it with him. Common sense penetrated the brandy fog.

He stuck the gun under his mattress and closed the empty holster, then picked up the gold watch and put it in the left-hand pocket of the breeches. He would show it off in front of the birthday boy, if he got the chance. He looked out of the window. It was no longer raining. He went out into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible. His mother was watching television in the living room.

Looking down at his feet in order to avoid the puddles, Igor walked out of the gate and headed towards the bus station. As he walked he ran his hands over the pockets of the breeches, enjoying the way they bulged with the bundles of roubles. If only they were full of hryvnas, or – even better – dollars! The evening seemed darker than usual. Igor looked up at the heavy sky. Never mind, he thought, the party at the Petrovich club should be fun. He just had to make sure he didn’t miss the last train home, as the shared minibuses could be pretty unreliable late at night.

The darkness seemed to wrap itself around Igor for a few seconds. It seemed strangely impenetrable. Either that or something was wrong with his eyes. In this ‘dark’ moment Igor suddenly remembered that his uncle had died from drinking fake brandy. First he went blind and started crying out, ‘I can’t see anything!’ Then he stopped speaking altogether, lay down on the sofa and died. Or so Igor had been told – he hadn’t witnessed it first hand, of course. But ever since then he’d checked the smell of opened bottles of brandy before drinking from them.

Igor was still able to feel the hard surface of the road with every step, so he brushed off his alarm and kept walking. Suddenly the darkness released him, and he saw lights in the distance. He looked around, trying to work out whether his eyes were playing tricks on him or whether the street lamps had simply gone out. It happened sometimes. You could be sitting watching television at home, when suddenly – snap! Complete darkness. Sometimes it lasted for five minutes, sometimes several hours.

Behind him was a solid wall of darkness. Nothing was visible except the lights up ahead. Must be a power cut, thought Igor. He nodded decisively and carried on walking.

Igor suddenly felt a little wave of pleasure as he thought about the boots. They were so comfortable! They’d been at least a size too big when he’d first tried them on, but now they felt as though they’d been made to measure by a master cobbler. His delight abruptly changed to suspicion. He stopped and looked down at the boots but found that he could hardly even see them. He cleared his throat and quickened his pace, hoping to reach the lights more quickly.

I should have reached the bus station by now, and that’s always brightly lit, thought Igor. It’s surrounded by kiosks too, and what about that little bar? He peered into the distance, feeling increasingly anxious. The lights weren’t where he expected them to be.

Igor started to feel hot, either from anxiety or from the strange feeling of disorientation, and he broke into a nervous sweat. He took his anorak off and threw it over his shoulder, hooking his finger into the loop inside the collar.

‘Hey, lieutenant! What’s the hurry?’ a woman’s voice suddenly called from behind him. ‘Have you got the right time?’

Igor stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He couldn’t see anything.

‘No,’ he said warily, peering into the darkness. ‘I’ve got a watch, but it’s not working.’

‘Lucky you!’ The woman’s voice contained the hint of a threat.

‘Manka, you idiot! Are you blind? He’s a policeman, not a soldier!’ Her male companion’s voice was an urgent whisper. ‘Come on, let’s go! Hurry up!’

Igor heard footsteps hurriedly receding. Now he was scared. He started walking towards the lights again, as fast as he could. He reached them eventually and came to a halt in front of some well-lit gates, behind which he could see grey factory buildings.